


The Day Will Come . . .

by AndrogynousInk



Series: Survivalist Memoirs [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: (I mean it's S1 Daryl and Merle), Blood and Gore, Can it even be called a romance yet?, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Season/Series 01, Slow Burn, Slurs, really slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-09-12 08:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9064318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndrogynousInk/pseuds/AndrogynousInk
Summary: You were alone. Before, during, after. It was a constant thread in the fabric of your reality, the one thing you clung to. Forming attachments was nothing short of senseless in a world where only your wits determined whether or not you would survive another day. Yet they were something strange, and what they offered was your siren's call, as irresistible for you as the mythical song that brought sailors to their demise. Set both before and during Season 1 of AMC's The Walking Dead.





	1. Empathy

  
_"Empathy is a tool for building people into groups, for allowing us to function as more than self-obsessed individuals."_  
— Neil Gaiman

Lori Grimes was a woman of patience. Raising a son, particularly the son of a distinguished officer, required an even temperament and easy understanding. While she had her failings — and she would readily admit to them if asked — no one could claim that a lack of compassion was one of them. Which is why, much to everyone's surprise, she came after you with a vengeance the moment she realized that you had taken Carl down to the quarry to show him how to fish. Perhaps the outburst startled you so badly because it had never been an issue before. After all, you'd taken the boy out not three days ago to show him how to set up snares and tell poisonous mushrooms from edible ones, and she'd actually thanked you for doing so. 

To have her as in your face as she got, words low and furious, left your mind stuttering over your own thoughts, which didn't seem capable of making it to your mouth. As for the others, they stood idly by, watching and listening as the supposed matriarch of the camp lit into you with the smell of sweat and sex practically a perfume, and it wasn't long before _your_ temper began to fray. She wanted to admonish you when she was sneaking off at every opportunity to meet up with Shane? When, half the time, it was you or Carol who kept her son occupied during her absences? Just as you readied yourself to fling those facts in her face, Dale stepped between the two of you, spouting some pacifist mantra or other, and she turned and stalked away, dragging Carl behind her. The elderly man gave you a sympathetic look before returning to his post as lookout, and you disappeared back into the woods before Shane, who'd begun making his way over to you, could say a word.

It wasn't that you were a particularly skilled hunter or tracker. You knew bits and pieces, thanks to a father who was more than happy to take his daughter hunting with him on his weekend trips, but those consisted mostly of sitting in a stand, waiting for some unsuspecting buck to walk into his line of sight. That sort of stationary hunting was nearly useless to you now; being still could save your life, sure, but hunting rifles weren't exactly a smart choice when even the slightest of sounds could draw a horde of walkers on you faster than you could get to safety.

That's why it was mostly left to others, with the women expected to forage for berries and mushrooms and anything growing that seemed edible. The women were also expected to cook, handle laundry and other cleaning duties, and otherwise limit themselves to monotonous, housewife tasks. Having been raised to be fiercely independent and forward-thinking, it didn't sit well with you, this regression to stereotypical work. In fact, you had often voiced the idea, as calmly as you could, that it made absolutely zero sense for the men to push all of their laundry onto the women instead of teaching them to defend themselves, only to be shut down by almost every male around, particularly Shane and Ed. You had a feeling that the Dixon brothers might have said something about it if not for the fact that you'd convinced Merle that you'd castrate him if he kept treating you like a piece of tail.

You kept yourself away from camp for the remainder of the day, scavenging for blackberries, muscadines, and yarrow. When it started to get late, you headed towards the camp, your pack not as full as you would like, pausing only once to snag a rabbit from a snare you'd laid out with Carl. As soon as you were back, you gave a handful of berries each to Carl, Sophia, Eliza, and Louis before looking for a quiet place to clean your catch away from the prying eyes of children. Once, Sophia had stumbled upon you with your fingers full of entrails and had run, crying, back to her mother, after which it was decreed that any sort of act that might traumatize anyone was to be done away from the main gathering area.

Of course, that rule was only in regards to skinning and gutting animals, as anyone who happened to pass the Peletier tent at any given time could testify. Still, according to the wisdom of your self-appointed leader, there was nothing that could be done about the abuse unless Carol spoke up about it, and you highly doubted that the timid woman would ever say anything to jeopardize her husband. You glanced thoughtfully in the direction of the city of Atlanta, wondering if you could convince Glenn to grab any laxatives on his next run; while it wouldn't do anything to solve the situation permanently, a man in that sort of pain might not be able to lash out at his wife and daughter. Then again, it could make it worse. With a tired sigh, you resigned yourself to doing nothing other than helping her discreetly and set about finishing your task.

"What'cha got?" The rough drawl startled you enough that you nearly dropped the rabbit. Turning over to look over your shoulder, you confirmed the owner of the voice, giving him a casual once-over as you stood and wiped your hand on your pants. Daryl Dixon was the more tolerable of the brothers who'd stumbled upon the group before your time, though you wouldn't say that you liked him. Less crass and loud than Merle, he was still prone to angry outbursts at real or imagined slights, and only seemed more settled than Merle in the sense that he was more likely to back down with less of a fuss.

Leaving the carcass on the rock you'd been using, you gave a small shrug. "Rabbit. It was on one the snares I set up a couple of days ago. You?"

The hunter scoffed, but seemed to be in better spirits than usual. "Merle and I got us a deer. Figure it's better than squirrel stew." He paused, and you already knew what was coming next. "Or a mangy rabbit."

Your lip curled, but it was more of a smile than a snarl. "Fuck off, Dixon. You'll be grateful for my rabbits one day."

Daryl's only response was another snort of derision, but he did stoop to grab your pack and the cleaned meat before heading towards the main fire. Already you could smell the mushrooms Amy was tending to, and the thought of eating something as rich as venison with them made your mouth water in a way it hadn't for a long time. Daryl halted only once, depositing your bag on a lawn chair, and then he continued on his way with your rabbit hooked on his fingers. Part of you wanted to complain, but you knew that he probably had the best ideas on how to cook it, so you merely huffed in frustration, ignoring the way the muscles of his shoulders rolled beneath his skin with every movement he made.

His ability to keep your attention was something that you blamed on a lack of other options — Dale was too old, Merle too obnoxious, Morales was married, Ed was a bigger asshole than Merle, Jim was odd and twitchy, T-Dog too prone to whining, Shane neither available nor your type — and the fact that Daryl was probably the man you got along with best in camp, an odd thing considering that the two of you rarely spoke longer than five minutes at a time. Add that to the fact that you hadn't been laid since long before the world went to shit, and he became a distraction, and not always a welcome one. Almost as if he sensed your stare, he raised a hand in a brief gesture that might have been a wave, never halting his stride. Momentarily satisfied, you decided to help Amy with the mushrooms. Last time she'd cooked them alone, they'd almost been jerky.

The pretty blonde looked up, smiling radiantly, at your approach. "Hey. Any luck today?"

Settling next to her, you carefully snagged a mushroom out of the pot and inspected it. "Some berries and a rabbit. Yarrow, too, but I doubt anyone will want to use it."

"Yarrow?"

"Mhm." The mushroom was edible, so you popped it into your mouth, wincing as the hot juices splattered across your tongue. "It's got some uses when it comes to scrapes and scratches. The leaves aid in blood clotting, making a diluted juice can help with internal bleeding, and supposedly you can make a tea or an astringent out of it."

Amy stared, evidently caught off-guard, and then she laughed. "I think I'll stick with bandaids, thanks."

You pointed at her, face jokingly serious. "Just you wait and see. You'll be begging me for yarrow leaves one day." After a moment's thought, you grabbed the potholders sitting on the ground and used them to get the skillet off of the fire. "These are done, I think. Daryl's prepping a deer or something to go with them."

"Daryl, huh?" Eyebrows wiggling, Amy leaned closer. "I bet you're happy he's back."

A deadpan look was your only response; ever since you'd let slip that you wouldn't exactly say no to a roll in the hay with the redneck extraordinaire, she'd made it her goal to drop as many hints and innuendos as she could get away with. Some were mostly harmless — little quips about how fine he looked in a sleeveless shirt or how you must miss him when he left for a hunt — but the rest left you wondering if maybe she wasn't an innocent as she seemed. As if to prove your point, Amy nudged your shoulder and nodded in the direction of the Dixons' tent, where Daryl could be seen changing his stained shirt for a fresh one. Huffing, you nudged her back roughly enough to nearly knock her over, ignoring her indignant noise in favor of divvying up the mushrooms on plastic plates.

It wasn't that she was wrong, exactly. You weren't prideful enough to deny the fact of your own attraction, but you had never been a fan of purely physical relationships, and you hadn't spent enough time with anyone at camp to know them intimately. And getting Daryl Dixon to open up to you about the weather would be torturous enough that you couldn't imagine actually trying to build something with him. A quick shake of your head reoriented your thoughts. _Mushrooms,_ you reminded yourself. _Dinner. This is the apocalypse, not a romance novel._

The rest of the evening passed in relatively good company. Lori seemed to have forgotten her earlier ire, allowing Carl to pester you for stories, Amy and Andrea regaled with tales from their childhoods, and even Shane, usually so taciturn, cracked a few bawdy jokes from his time as an officer. Only the notable distance forcibly kept by Ed dampened the mood, but that was easily ignored in favor of cheering on the food fight between Morales's kids. It felt simple and easy, like the group was on a long camping trip and not facing the end of the world. Cleanup was a breeze, with everyone pitching in to scrub plates and cups; you thought Jacqui was going to faint when Daryl and Merle came by and, instead of just dropping theirs off like usual, actually stuck around to help tidy up (as it turns out, their version of helping was mostly staying out of the way, with only Daryl really doing much at all). It actually felt . . . Nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few quick notes on the text:
> 
> 1.) As I am not a native of Georgia, I've used outside sources to figure out what medicinal and edible plants grow in that state. Most of my information comes from a website titled _Edible Plants for North Georgia_ , where I assume, based on the proximity of Atlanta to the camp, is where Season 1 is located. 
> 
> 2.) The medicinal uses of yarrow have been mentioned in many, many books. My first encounter with it was the _Warriors_ series by Erin Hunter, wherein it's often used by medicine cats to stop scrapes and scratches from bleeding. According to the site _Cherokee Medicinal Herbs_ , this information is correct, so I've decided to include it.
> 
> 3.) There will not be anything sexual in this installment of _Survivalist Memoirs_ , as Daryl is shown to be very closed off, and relationships with him take more time than can be allotted in six episodes or chapters based off of them. It would make little sense, particularly for Season 1 Daryl, who isn't close to anyone in the group other than his brother, to immediately proclaim love and longing for someone he's only known for a few months.
> 
> 4.) This work is the first in a series that will be divided between seasons of _The Walking Dead_ , with each installment being given its own tags and summary in order for easy identification. If you want a one-shot with a particular character set during a certain time, feel free to let me know, and I'll write it and post it in a separate collection.


	2. Blame

_"As always happens in their species when something goes radically wrong and needs fixing instantly, they settled down to try to work how who was to blame."_  
— Terry Pratchett

You knew that you weren't the only one who stared, silence louder than any words could be as a man in a Sheriff's uniform clung to Lori and Carl, relief in every sob that wracked his body. As far as anyone in the camp knew, Lori's husband was dead, killed somehow when the outbreak began. Or so Shane had said, according to Dale. Studying the newcomer's face and hair, you concluded that this was, in fact, the missing Grimes patriarch, back from the death imposed on him by lust and dishonesty. From Lori's reaction, the fury that hid beneath her joy, you knew that she wasn't to blame for this, and turned your gaze to Shane, wondering why he had done it. To keep Lori and Carl for himself? To prevent them from returning to the city, to their deaths? You didn't know. You didn't particularly care.

Still, when introductions were being made, the man strolled over to you, tugged along by his insistent son. "This is the one I was tellin' you about! She has great stories!"

"That so?" The man looked at you with such warmth that you knew immediately you would follow him anywhere. Genuine. Concerned. Happy. He wore his heart on his sleeve, a fact that you could appreciate. "I'd like to thank you for helpin' to take care of my boy. Rick Grimes." And he offered you his hand.

Answering his gratitude with a smile, you gave your own name. "It's no trouble, really. He's a good listener when he wants to be."

"I hear that Shane saved them from the city." Rick's voice was nothing but kind when he mentioned the other man. So he didn't know.

"Probably," you replied. "I came after this camp was established, so I wouldn't know much about it."

He nodded. Before he could say whatever was on his mind, Lori called to him from the other side of the camp. You caught something about a clean change of clothes; Rick gave you a smile as he left, and you found yourself watching him go. Attractive, polite, and married. With a laugh, you wandered off to find Amy, your usual partner in crime. She'd want to know everything you did about the mysterious Sheriff, and her tendency to laugh and giggle like a schoolgirl was exactly what you needed to put the thought of his eyes out of your mind. You found her by Dale's camper, apparently sunbathing while reading one of the few books Dale had managed to keep. It looked like a Western, not exactly her type of story. She greeted you eagerly when you sat in the grass next to her, questions flying at you before you'd even gotten completely settled.

You did your best to answer, often deflecting when you didn't know, half of your mind occupied with the empty part of camp the Dixons usually claimed. Daryl had left a few days prior on a hunting trip, hoping to bring back another deer. No one had missed the way he'd preened under the praise the previous one brought, even if his bluster was half-full of insults to anyone who complimented him. Merle . . . hadn't Merle gone on the supply run? You hadn't seen him come out of the truck with the others. Had he been left behind? Died? Either way, Daryl was likely to kill whoever was responsible, and you found yourself hoping that it wasn't Rick. There were too many people willing to solve problems with their fists and not enough who wanted to talk things out, and he seemed like the latter. It would be a shame if he wound up with a bolt between his eyes.

"Hey, Amy?" She hummed in response, fingers braiding strands of your hair. "Did you see Merle?"

She grimaced. "No, but I wasn't looking for him. Why?"

"He didn't come out of the truck."

". . . Oh." Her gazed followed yours to the empty tents, hands stilling on your head. "D'you think he . . . ?"

"I don't know. But there's going to be hell to pay if he doesn't turn up before Daryl gets back." You sighed, leaning back against the arm of her chair. "Hopefully he didn't do something stupid, like get himself locked on a roof."

Both of you turned when you heard an unfamiliar laugh, only to see Rick talking to Morales while Carl clung to his hand. "Now that," Amy said, "is a man I could get behind. Or under. Or —"

"He's married, Ames." But you were struggling to keep yourself straight-faced, and she could tell.

"I bet he's packing more than that revolver, if you know what I mean." A quick glance up revealed the exaggerated way she wiggled her eyebrows. Snickering under your breath, you patted her forearm lightly as you stood.

"Let me know if you ever find out." You were moving before she could reply, feet near-silent as they pressed against the worn grass.

When you'd arrived, a week or two after camp had been established, it'd been entirely by accident. No one had brought you back. You'd simply heard the sound of laughter across the quarry and followed it until you came across a group of women elbow deep in sudsy water. Their screaming had frightened you and drawn the men, and you'd had to yell at the top of your lungs that you were alive to stop them from firing at you. You didn't blame them, as you'd been covered in dirt and mud and blood, hair a mess and arms scratched to hell, though some of them still seemed to be trying to make up for almost shooting you. They had brought you to the camp, grass already trampled to the dirt in most places, a strange collection of tents and vehicles, introduced you to everyone, and put you to work. Everyone helps, they'd said, and you could see it now, small groups of people clustered around this or that, prepping food for dinner or classwork for tomorrow.

It wasn't home, but it was damn close.

You were halfway into your tent when a hand gripped your upper arm, tight enough to stop you but not to hurt, and you glanced up to see Shane. He paused when he saw your face and then let go, muttering some sort of apology about mistaking you for Lori (not likely, you thought, as your hair was different from hers, even if both of you were thin due to the living situation). He seemed almost drunk as he left, even if you knew he wasn't, a man suddenly lost at sea without any idea how to get to shore. Part of you wanted to feel bad for him — you knew how much he loved Lori and Carl — but the other part reminded you that he'd gotten himself into this by lying, whether intentional or not, so you went about your business of changing into clothes more fit for scrounging around in the woods. You thought you saw a patch of strawberries yesterday, and the idea of bringing back some sort of treat for everyone made you feel useful.

It was near dark when you returned, bruised and scratched from a near fall but clutching a bag of berries to your chest. Lori looked like she wanted to scold you, but settled for a half-hearted reprimand when you revealed your prize. Glenn helped you wash and prep the strawberries while Lori and Amy finished dinner, which turned out to be some sort of beans and rice. Once everyone was seated, plates were passed around, first to the children and then to everyone else. Dale said a generic prayer, Shane thanked everyone for their hard work, and then you ate. Sometimes dinners were rowdy, but this one was quiet, all eyes fixed either on Rick or Shane, and it was Glenn who broke the silence, jostling you with his elbow when he leaned forward.

"What did you feel when you woke up?" When Andrea gave hissed a warning, he frowned. "What? I mean, I don't know how I would feel if I woke up and the dead were walking around."

Rick didn't take offense, but his voice was uncertain when he answered. "Disoriented. I guess that comes closest." He tugged Carl closer to him, staring at the fire. "Disoriented. Fear, confusion . . . all those things, but . . . Disoriented comes closest."

"Words can be meager things. Sometimes they fall short," Dale replied quietly.

"I felt like I'd been ripped out of my life and put somewhere else. For a while, I thought I was trapped in some coma dream, somethin' I might not wake up from. Ever." Brows furrowed, he stretched out his legs, pressing a piece of wood back onto the embers.

". . . Mom said you died." Carl's voice was small, injured, and Rick pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

"She had every reason to believe that," he said. "Don't you ever doubt it."

You turned your head to look at Shane, whose expression was equal parts love and loathing. You didn't hear the rest of the conversation, only processing snippets about Atlanta and a medevac, and you only returned to it when he came back from the Peletiers' camp, face twisted in disgust. It was Dale who broached the topic that no one else wanted to, looking around with a hint of self-righteousness at those who'd survived their foray into Atlanta, and you found that you wanted to smack him, tell him that no one but Merle was to blame for what had happened. Instead, you listened.

"Have you given any thought to Daryl Dixon?" Amy gnawed her lip, casting a worried glance at you as Dale spoke. "He won't be happy to hear his brother was left behind."

T-Dog grunted. "I'll tell him. I dropped the key. It's on me."

"You got a death wish?" When he scowled at you, you shrugged.

"I cuffed him," Rick interjected. "That makes it mine."

"Guys, it's not a competition." Glenn sounded as bemused as you felt. "I don't mean to bring race into this, but it might sound better coming from a white guy."

"I did what I did. Hell if I'm gonna hide from him." It was all talk. T-Dog's eyes were full of barely concealed fear, and you couldn't blame him. Daryl would skin him alive if he took responsibility.

"We could lie," Amy suggested, but she didn't sound convinced.

"Or tell the truth," Andrea snapped. "Merle was out of control. Something had to be done or he'd have gotten us killed." Turning to Lori, she continued, "Your husband did what was necessary. And if Merle got left behind, it's nobody's fault but Merle's."

"And that's what we tell Daryl?" There it was again, that self-righteous indignation. "I don't see a rational discussion to be had from that, do you? Word to the wise, we're gonna have our hands full when he gets back from his hunt."

After a moment of internal debate, you decided that they were getting nowhere and yawned. "I'll tell him. Out of everyone here, I'm the least likely to get murdered. Screamed at, yes, and possibly hit, but not killed."

T-Dog scoffed. "I was scared and I ran. I'm not ashamed of it."

"I didn't say —"

"We were all scared. We all ran. What's your point?" Andrea's voice was cold.

He considered the faces watching him, fingers curling around his wrist in a gesture of self-comfort. "I stopped long enough to chain that door. Staircase is narrow. Maybe half a dozen geeks can squeeze against it at any one time. It's not enough to break through that . . . Not that chain, not that padlock. My point . . ." He took a deep breath before meeting your gaze squarely. "Dixon's alive and he's still up there, handcuffed on that roof. That's on us."

"Yeah," you agreed, "it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Note on the Timeline:
> 
> According to the _TWD_ wiki, King County, where Shane Walsh and the Grimes family used to live, is the fictitious counterpart of Fayette County. Fayetteville, the seat of Fayette County, is a roughly 34 minute drive from Atlanta if one drives on G-85 and I-75 North. My _guess_ is that it would take roughly two to seven hours to get there on horseback, depending on whether or not you've got the horse going faster or slower than your own walking pace. As Rick leaves King County in the morning and it's still the same day, albeit late afternoon, when he arrives at the camp, I'm going to say it took him about five hours to get there.
> 
> As for how that relates to the timeline of this particular story, well . . . I've read a theory that stated that the first season of _The Walking Dead_ takes place over four nights and five days, which I can see. (Rick stays with Morgan one night, spends two nights at the camp, and is in the CDC for one night.) This means that I'm having to play with the timeline a little bit, but not in a way that affects the known canon of the series. It was stated in the third episode that Daryl was gone, but we don't know when he left. Since he isn't seen until the day after Rick arrives, and hunting trips usually last between two and three days, I've decided to go with the longer amount of time as a way to explain why he was so angry about a walker eating his deer.
> 
> For those of you who are curious, this story will be roughly six chapters long. As you can see, this chapter ends towards the half-way mark of the episode. While _The Day Will Come . . ._ will end at the same place as the first season, I'm going to be tweaking events slightly to help build the world and relationships between characters.


End file.
